


Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

by silverfoxstole



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Gen, The Doctor gets an unexpected makeover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 20:24:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6580900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxstole/pseuds/silverfoxstole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucie Miller: Stylist Beyond the Stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> A little prequel to Underground, written just eight years late, explaining the Doctor's makeover at Lucie's hands.

“Doctor, where the hell have you been? I was starting to think you’d been picked up by those mad Hawaii Five – 0 wannabes.” Leaning across the TARDIS doorway in what she hoped was a suitably nonchalant and I-don’t-care-why-it’s-taken-you-an-hour-to-get-back-really-I-wasn’t-worried-at-all-I’m-just-being-sarky way, Lucie watched her Time Lord companion make his way towards the ship; it was only as he got closer that she realised he wasn’t so much walking as squelching, and the reason he was squelching was because he was covered almost head to foot in what appeared to be bright pink mud. It was dripping from his hair, his coat, leaving a trail behind him that shimmered in the encroaching dusk. “You said you just had a few loose ends to tie up. What happened?”

“I fell,” he said defensively. “It took me a while to climb out.”

“So I see. What did you fall into: a vat of blancmange?”

“Not quite; more like quick-dry cement. It’s starting to crust over.” He lifted an arm and flexed his fingers; the pink stuff crackled, fissures running up his sleeve. “I need to get into the TARDIS and wash it off, quickly.”

“You look like someone dunked you in an Angel Delight fondue,” Lucie remarked, pushing herself upright to allow him into the ship. “Were you not watching where you were going as usual?”

“I don’t know what you mean; I have an impeccable sense of direction,” the Doctor declared in a lofty tone that was unfortunately somewhat undermined by his bedraggled appearance. He left thick, gloopy footprints all across the parquet floor as he made his way over to the console and yanked the lever that closed the doors without checking if Lucie had followed him. She made it through just before they boomed shut, almost catching the hem of her jumper. “I just... lost my footing, that’s all.”

“You mean you tripped. You better not be expecting me to clear up this mess,” she told him. “If you want hired help you can advertise. I’m strictly a passenger.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No chance of me asking you to earn your keep, then?”

“All the getting kidnapped and running away from monsters more than earns my keep.” She watched him twisting dials and flicking switches, making a half-hearted attempt to understand how the TARDIS actually worked now that it was freed from the Time Lords’ control; most of the time the Doctor seemed to do things at random, and she would be willing to swear that a few days ago she’d seen him crossing his fingers behind his back. The time rotor began to move, slowly, and then came to a shuddering halt, the elephantine bellow of the engines abruptly cut off. “Oh, great, looks like we’re stuck here then. Maybe you can ask that mayor-bloke if he’s got any cement remover. Is that stuff always pink? ‘Cause if it is it’s a well weird colour for a pavement.”

Ignoring her, the Doctor made a fist, reaching out and very deliberately thumping the console, hard; after a pause and a stutter the time rotor started up again and he relaxed slightly. Turning away he began tugging at his cravat, yanking it free and dropping it to the floor where it landed with a thud. His coat proved more difficult, and it took quite a bit of wiggling, wriggling and some other interesting movements that Lucie thought she might have seen some very bladdered footballers trying in a club in Blackpool on a Saturday night before he was free of it; the velvet hit the deck with all the sensitivity of a bag of rocks and Lucie snatched her foot away just in time before it was crushed. “Only in your parochial human view, Lucie,” he said, and she gave him a patented Miller Scowl.

“Oi, don’t you start calling me stupid, Mr Know-It-All-Alien. There’s nothing wrong with being human.”

“I never said there was. But your situation does mean you have a necessarily limited view of the universe. Just because something looks out of place on the average English high street doesn’t mean it has no charm or value; some cultures just use commodities for what they are, not how they appear to others. And for all we know pink pavements may well be the height of fashion in this part of the cosmos.” Surprisingly deftly considering he was pontificating at the same time the Doctor undid his waistcoat, which joined his other clothes on the floor; as his fingers moved towards his trouser buttons Lucie belatedly realised precisely what he was up to and decided enough was enough.

“Hey, hey, hang on! What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, and he stared at her as though she was mad.

“I have to get out of these clothes; the synthetic stone is already solidifying, and if I don’t get rid of them now I’ll be encased in it! Look!” He knocked his left hand against the console and this time the pink stuff didn’t even chip.

“Well, you’re not stripping off in here! I’m not needing the brain bleach from having seen you with your kit off,” Lucie told him firmly, and he rolled his eyes. “Wait there. I’ll get you a bath robe or something.”

She just managed to wait until the interior door had closed behind her before she started laughing.

***

Much later she was in the library with a pot of tea that had gone stone cold and a racy novel that she had been surprised to find stuffed into the stacks behind a Delphonian cookbook when there was a soft footstep behind her as she turned a page. “That has to be the longest bath on record,” she remarked. “I thought you must have shrivelled up and vanished down the plughole.”

“Two showers _and_ a bath to be precise. I wore out four loofahs trying to get clean,” the Doctor replied, rounding the sofa and flopping down beside her. He picked up the teapot and lifted the lid, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Did you not make a fresh pot?”

“It _was_ fresh when I made it. I didn’t expect you to be such a water baby. And I really don’t need to know about your bath habits, ta all the same.”

“After all I’ve been through today, I would have thought I at least deserved a decent cup of tea,” he whined, swinging his feet onto the table and slumping back against the cushions.

“You know where the kitchen is, don’t you? Doctor - ” Lucie finally turned to face him and whatever had been on the tip of her tongue was swiftly replaced by a giggle that broke free when she realised that soap and very hot water hadn’t been able to get rid of all the alien mud. It was still in his hair, lots of it, dragging the curls down in solid great lumps. She clapped a hand over her mouth when the giggle threatened to turn into a full-on cackle. “Sorry,” she mumbled, not meaning it at all.

He gave her a look that somehow managed to combine a pout, a glare and the sort of expression a spaniel wore when it was feeling sorry for itself. “Thanks. That makes me feel much better.”

“Well, what do you expect when you look like an old stick of candyfloss?” she asked, biting her lip to stop the smile that was spreading across her face. It didn’t work. “Would it not come out?”

“Yes, but it looked so fantastic I thought I’d leave it there. What do you think?” Irritated, he grabbed hold of a chunk of the stuff, going cross-eyed as he tried to look at it. “Blasted Thraxellians and their technology. It seems to have melded with my hair.”

“I have mentioned once or twice that you should get it cut...” Lucie reminded him.

“There is nothing wrong with my hair.”

“Except when you get Thraxellian synthetic stone stuck in it. Oh, come on, Doctor, it’s daft, it’s so unfashionable it’s never actually been in fashion in the first place and it makes you look like an old hippy!”

“Says you,” he grumped, letting what would have been a rather perfect ringlet go and folding his arms, slumping down even further in his seat. He was wearing a clean pair of trousers and an open-necked shirt, with the kind of loose silk dressing gown thrown over the top that Lucie had only seen on people swanning around in the poncy period dramas so beloved by her Great Auntie Nora. His bare feet were dangerously close to the tea tray so she nudged the biscuits to one side, out of range.

“Says anyone with any taste,” she retorted. “Why did you let it get like that, anyway? I can’t believe you actually went to the hairdresser’s and asked to look like James May.”

“Why not? He happens to be a useful chap to have around in a crisis; helped me fix the TARDIS when her dimensional stabilisers were on the blink.”

“Doctor,” Lucie said, tapping her nails against the arm of the sofa and trying to fight down the sudden urge to murder him, “Firstly, according to you the dimensional stabilisers are always on the blink; that’s your standard excuse for not getting to where we’re meant to be. Secondly, Captain Slow is not a style icon, and thirdly, he did _not_ help you fix the TARDIS.”

“Didn’t he?” Bloody Time Lord just gave her his Trademark Innocent Blue look and she mentally tossed up the disadvantages of throttling over death by poisoned Hobnobs before rolling her eyes heavenward.

“Yeah, right, of course he did. And Clarkson made her do donuts round Saturn.”

“He would have done had I not pointed out that the old girl is an automatic.” There was a definite mischievous grin creeping in at the corners of his mouth now, so Lucie threw her book at him. With impressive reflexes he caught it one-handed, eyes widening in horror as he saw the cover. “Where did you get this?”

“You’ve been busted,” she told him cheekily, and was pleased to see him blush. “I found your secret stash of dirty books.”

“All the volumes in here, the finest literature from a hundred civilisations, and you have to find that one.” He hurriedly stuffed the book between the sofa cushions, muttering something that sounded like ‘I must have word with Benny next time I’m on Dellah’.

“Don’t blame me; it was in your library, mate. Mind you, I don’t think much of that Christian Grey bloke; what a weirdo!”

The Doctor cleared his throat uncomfortably. “If you say so.”

“What did you come in here for, anyway?” Lucie asked a few minutes later when it became clear he wasn’t going to rise to the bait and prove he’d read the book. “I assume it wasn’t just to give me a laugh over your new hairdo, hilarious though it is.”

He made a ‘ha ha’ face. “I would have thought it was obvious: I need your help.”

“Come again?” She tapped her ear, leaning closer to him. “I did hear that right, didn’t I? Mr ‘I’m so high and mighty’ Time Lord needs _my_ help?”

“Lucie - ”

“The All Great and Powerful Doctor needs the help of poor Lucie Miller from Blackpool?” Lucie put a hand on her chest, as wide-eyed and shocked as she could manage. “Little old _me_?”

“All right, stop it.” She’d needled him; there was that annoyed edge to his voice, the touch of steel beneath the dark chocolate. “I’m not the Wizard of Oz, and I need your help because, although there are many things I am able to do, cutting my own hair isn’t one of them. OK?”

“OK. I’ve got your back up; my work is done. Why do you want me to cut your hair?”

“Because it’s the only way to get rid of this gunk,” he said in a tone that was only just wavering on the right side of civil. Reaching into the pocket of his dressing gown he pulled out a pair of extremely sharp scissors and passed them to her, handle first.

“Blimey, you’ve been taking a risk carrying those around,” she remarked as she took them. “One false move and you could have been - ”

The Doctor closed his eyes as though he was in pain. “Lucie, _please_.”

“Oh, all right. You know I just enjoy jerking your chain; you’re much too easy to wind up.” She shifted across to his side of the sofa and reached for his hair, fingering the ruined locks. “What do you want me to do?”

“Cut out the synthetic stone but try not to scalp me.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you think you can do that?”

“Oi, don’t insult the woman holding the scissors, not if you want to keep your lugholes,” she said, flicking him behind the ear in retaliation.

 “Just get on with it; I’m not exactly enjoying this, you know.”

“Well, bend your head over then. Should I make conversation, ask if you saw the match on Saturday?” After a moment’s consideration she took hold of a hank of hair and started snipping. “Who do you fancy for the Cup? Any thoughts on the three thirty at Aintree?”

“Do I have the right to remain silent?” the Doctor asked, sounding amused at last.

“Would be the first time you ever did,” Lucie told him. “I’ve never known you leave a silence without filling it.”

She felt him chuckle. “Am I being charged extra for the lip?”

“I’ll waive the fee if you tell me why you decided to grow your hair like this in the first place, and no messing about. It doesn’t exactly make you inconspicuous, does it?”

“Who said I wanted to be inconspicuous? I rather like being conspicuous, thank you very much.” A lump of mud and hair fell onto the carpet with a hollow _thunk_ , followed by another. He sighed. “If you must know, I was born with it.”

Lucie stopped cutting. “You what? Are you saying you looked like this as a baby? You must’ve frightened the life out of your parents. Assuming you have parents, of course.”

He was smiling now, she could tell, and shook his head. The trimmed curls were soft against her fingers. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“About which bit? You were the one who said it.” She waited, but he didn’t elaborate, so she got back to work. After another, longer pause, she asked, “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“I just did!” he said indignantly.

She caught her tongue between her teeth and raised her eyebrows. “Doctor, you are so full of bull, you know that, don’t you?”

“It has been mentioned once or twice. How are you doing?” he asked, lifting one hand as though desperate to feel for himself how much hair he had left but stopping just in time, fortunately before Lucie had to slap him.

“I’ve just got to do the front, so sit up and hold still.” Much to her amazement he did, keeping so still that she wondered for a moment if he was still breathing. She hadn’t thought the non-human whirlwind had it in him to stop moving for so long. Incredibly, the pink gunk had avoided his fringe and so she just trimmed it slightly, tidying the curls around his ears. Sitting back on her heels she did had to admit that she’d done a pretty good job, even if she said so herself. Which she had every intention of doing at the right moment. “All right; you can look now. And no grousing,” she warned. “I still have the scissors and I’m not afraid to use ‘em.”

“Perish the thought.” The Doctor opened his eyes and reached for the hand mirror that had appeared on the coffee table. Though Lucie was getting used to living in the TARDIS, the ship’s apparent ability to know exactly what was wanted and when still had a tendency to freak her out. She wasn’t sure she was quite comfortable with the idea of the TARDIS knowing what she was thinking before she did.

Somehow she managed to stay quiet while the Doctor examined his reflection, but as the silence stretched out she couldn’t help asking, “Is it OK?”

He didn’t look up, staring at the mirror as though he’d found a stranger there. “What do you think?”

“Well, call me biased, but I don’t think it’s half bad. Suits you; makes you look younger.”

“Really?” He sounded surprised, and held the mirror at arm’s length, turning it this way and that. “Do you think I could pass for nine hundred and fifty?”

“ _What_?!” Lucie squeaked, eyes widening to what felt like football proportions. “How old _are_ you?”

“One thousand and thirty seven, I _think_ , though I may have lost count somewhere in my seven hundreds. It’s difficult to keep up sometimes,” he muttered, tugging at the curls that still hung over his forehead before glancing at her with a grin. “You’re rather good at this.”

“Thanks,” she said, still trying to get her head round the idea of him being over a thousand years old when he looked about forty five. Ish. She wasn’t much good at guessing ages. “Does that mean you like it, then?”

“It’ll take some getting used to. Where did you learn how to cut hair?”

“Oh, I thought about being a hairdresser before I left school; applied for college and that, practised doing me mam’s hair, and my Auntie Pat’s. Then I just sort of... lost interest, once I found out about the crap hours and the crap wages, at least to start with.” Lucie shrugged. “Never was much good at figuring out what I wanted to be; that’s why I was on my way to the interview for the office. Decent pay, regular hours...”

“Pension scheme, prospect of promotion, guarantee of boredom,” the Doctor finished, getting to his feet. He pulled a face when he realised he was standing in his own dead hair and strode over to a space between the bookcases which, when he pressed on the wall, sprang open to reveal, of all things, a cleaning cupboard. He rummaged around inside for a moment before emerging pushing an ordinary-looking upright vacuum cleaner. Lucie couldn’t help it: she burst out laughing. He flicked a brow. “What? You think everything in the TARDIS is advanced and futuristic? Never waste a good idea.”

“Doctor, hardly anything in this old crate is futuristic,” Lucie told him, having to shout over the whine of the hoover. “Including you!”

“Lucie, Lucie, Lucie, you insult me.” He shot her a wounded look, but the grin returned a moment later. “But, since you’ve done such a good job I think you deserve a treat, and I need somewhere to show off your handiwork.”

Vacuuming abandoned he hurried over to the door, leaving Lucie to switch off the cleaner to stop it gobbling up the rug before chasing him down the corridor and into the console room.

***

By the time she got there he was already setting coordinates, dressing gown flapping behind him as he moved from panel to panel; there was a Chinese dragon embroidered down his back. She found that a little thrill of anticipation was already building in her stomach, wondering where they would end up next.

“You wouldn’t have wanted to take that job in the office, would you?” the Doctor asked idly, adjusting a dial. He gave her a sidelong glance, and she could see the way his eyes were dancing without his usual mane of hair to hide them. “Discounting everything that happened with the Cybermen, of course.”

“Well, I could have done with a steady income,” Lucie began, and hid her smile when she saw his face fall slightly. “But, nah. This is much better!”

“Excellent. That’s what I like to hear!” He pulled the dematerialisation lever and the time rotor began to move, smoothly this time, the familiar strained wheezing of the TARDIS’s engines ringing through the room. “Now: how do you fancy the Imperial garden party on Artus Prime? Three suns, a pleasant, balmy engineered climate and as much Bektane vodka as you can drink. I may even be able to wangle an introduction to the Emperor himself, though I warn you that he’s a little over-friendly and rather fond of knock-knock jokes.”

Lucie shook her head, laughing again. “Sounds great: lead me to it. Should I dress up for this party?”

“Of course! An Artusan party is no time to be casual; the wardrobe room is at your disposal. I suggest putting something sharp in your bag, though, especially if we’re going to see the Emperor; he has five hands, you see, and they do tend to wander. A quick jab with a fork usually does the trick.”

“Oh? Been goosed before have you?” She watched him as he moved about, guiding the ship through the vortex, mentally sizing him up and wondering precisely what in the way of posh gear the TARDIS wardrobe had to offer. “Actually, I’ve got one condition about this party.”

“Oh?” The eyebrow arched again. “And that condition is..?”

“If I’m going to dress up, so are you. I’m not dolling myself up to the nines to go trailing around with a Time Lord who looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. No ratty old velvet coats.”

“There is nothing ratty about my coat!” the Doctor protested. “It has... sentimental value. We’ve been through a lot, that coat and I.”

“Then it’s about time you got a new one. It’s wrecked!”

“It is not.” He sounded like a petulant toddler; she expected him to start stamping his feet. “It just needs a bit of a wash and brush up, that’s all.”

“Doctor, it’s covered in alien blancmange! You’d need to crack it at the armpits with a hammer to put it back on! Don’t look so scared,” Lucie said quickly as he began to back around the other side of the console, away from her. “I’m really good at this sort of thing, I promise. It’ll be fun!”

Both brows went up this time, his expression distorted by the column of the time rotor he had retreated behind. “Lucie, I think you and I have _very_ different definitions of that word.”

“Well.” She gave him a wicked grin. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

He stared at her through the glass for a long moment, before finally throwing up his hands in defeat. “If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”

“You’re a miserable old sod sometimes, you know that?” she told him, grabbing him by the arm so that he couldn’t get away. “Just think of me as your personal stylist!”

“I’d really rather not,” the Doctor muttered, but she ignored him, the notion suddenly coming to life in her mind.

“Yeah, now that’s a great idea! I’ve got experience; I helped my mate Trish with her sister’s wedding. Everyone loved the way the bridesmaids looked. It could be a whole new career for me. Don’t you think?”

He sighed. “Am I allowed an honest opinion?”

“No.” Excitedly she waved a hand in the air, encompassing a sign only she could see. “Just think of it: ʻLucie Miller, stylist to’ – no, ‘ _beyond_ the stars’! I like the way that sounds; would look great on a business card. Do you reckon I’d get a lot of trade?”

The Doctor looked her up and down in evident amusement, taking in the clothes she’d chucked on for lounging about between monsters. “Only from those citizens of the universe who favour fuzzy sweaters and bunny slippers.”

Lucie stuck her tongue out at him. “This coming from the man who looks like a Victorian lounge lizard.”

“How dare you! I’ll have you know I got this dressing gown in seventeenth century China. When you’re a Time Lord - ”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know: everything’s relative.” She dragged him down the corridor towards the TARDIS wardrobe. “Doctor, Time Lord or not, I will bring you up to date if it’s the last thing I do!”

The Doctor’s voice echoed back towards the console room. “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to regret this..?”


End file.
